


The Hero of Two Worlds

by A_Simple_Peach



Category: Hamilton - Fandom, lafayette - Fandom
Genre: The life of Lafayette, hero of two worlds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7572325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Simple_Peach/pseuds/A_Simple_Peach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Lafayette did not have an easy life, but it was an inspiring one. As a hero, his story is worth telling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Name is Gilbert

_Prologue_   


Marie Louise kissed her husband goodbye. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she set her jaw and spoke with a strong voice in spite of it.

 

“You will return?” 

 

“Of course, my dear.” he replied, reassuring her with another soft kiss.

 

His strong jaw formed into a tight smile, his grey eyes swimming and his hard features betraying nothing. Alas, when your words convey a feeling, hiding your feelings through such actions betrays them. 

 

Not that his wife’s youth carried to her mind; she was not naive.

 

She swallowed stiffly, as if attempting to exile her worries to her gut. Again, she was not naive, and so she was aware of the vanity of the action. A deep breath and a “see you soon” could only go so far.

 

Man turned from woman, the ruffles of his uniform rustling softly with the movement. The light danced across the shiny buttons of the jacket. As he stepped through the front door, his wife watched the colors of his stony features fade to black; already her husband looked like the words she would see soon enough, the formal lettering he would become.

 

The door creaked shut.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Dear Madam de la Riviere,”

 

The woman to whom the name belonged shut her eyes and absentmindedly played with the soft hair of her young baby boy. This was it for her.

 

She looked around the luxurious manor in which she lived. Her bedchamber was bright with the early morning sunlight. There was the scent of expensive perfumes and oils in the air, the sound of servants already moving about the house. One would be in any minute now to assist Madam Marie Louise Jolie de la Fayette into her day-clothes. She wondered if, when her world changed forever, if it would physically look as if it had changed.

 

“It is our stoic duty to inform you that on the first of this month of August-”

 

She shuddered, then willed herself on.

 

“-your husband, Michel du Motier de la Fayette, Marquis de la Fayette,-”

 

Oh, why did he have to go to war? Couldn’t he have just stayed home? He was the Marquis of one of the oldest, wealthiest, most powerful families in all of France, couldn’t he have stayed? He was always going on about the family’s history in the military! 

 

She skimmed through the titles. It wasn’t like she didn’t know them all already.

 

“-was shot through by a British cannonball-” her breathing hitched, “-and has, unfortunately, passed from this world.”

 

Color faded. From her face, from the walls, from the sky, even from her thoughts. Her world was indeed completely and permanently changed. A fire flared behind her eyes as she thought of how no one else would see the change. No one else would feel the change. 

 

Knock, knock, knock!

 

Casting the letter on the ground, she stiffly rose from her place in her bed. Two young eyes blinked open and peered up at her. A whine came from the toddler’s throat. She gently shushed him and smiled emptily. 

He had his father’s eyes.

 

Composing herself, she called for the maids to come in. 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She couldn’t do it.

 

The memories flooded in. May 22, 1754. Lavish decorations. A stately priest. Flowers. Pews full of relatives and important figures. Endless formalities. A dress. Michel. The kiss that told her it was all going to be ok.

 

She felt the loss of the kiss as much as she had felt the presence. That horrid scientist had said that every action has its equal opposite reaction. Perhaps this was indeed true, because now she felt that nothing would be ok ever again.

 

She thought it would be easier since she expected it. Apparently, nothing could stymie the pain of loss. How wrong she had been.

 

The scent of salt, the cold touch of tears, the sound of a sob; these repeated in an endless cycle as she wrote. Chavaniac was such a lovely place, but so dreadfully full of memories. Marie could not help but feel as though she had overstayed her welcome.

 

Passing the carefully-worded letter on to a servant with orders to deliver it to her mother, she turned to find her little boy.

 

He was in his room, as usual, a maid was attempting to get him to sleep. She dismissed her, turning to look at her baby.

 

More memories. The scent of oils, the droning speech; she knew that is what it must have been like. Only a few short days after his birth, he was brought to be christened at the church. The Monseigneur Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de la Fayette, her little baby boy. She hadn’t been well enough to go with him to his christening, and his grandfather, her father, had died suddenly on his way down. Three days old, and Gilbert had to be alone amongst strangers.

 

She understood that feeling well. Still, she felt cold.

 

“Hello, my sweet little baby. Are you not napping?” she whispered through sobs.

 

“Mama!!” he giggled and hugged her.

 

As he blathered on nonsensically, as two year olds often did, she thought of his proud name with a half-hearted chuckle. Marie for herself, Joseph for his father’s brother, from whom the house name, de la Fayette, passed when he died; du Motier was a part of the name of their house, it was shared by his late father. Gilbert was his true name, truly the only one befitting this little creature.

 

He yawned, holding his hands up to his mother.

 

“Up!” he commanded.

 

Tearfully, she obliged. She could do at least this much for him. Since she was going to leave him soon. Rocking him to sleep, she thought of her home in Paris. She could devote the rest of her life to the church. Her mother would stay with Little Gilbert.

 

It was perfect.

  
She sung him one last lullaby.


	2. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His childhood was pretty rough already as a young boy, but it doesn't exactly let up. But he learns some new things and grows stronger in spite of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of detail of a Catholic service, though the focus is on Lafayette's viewpoint. Still, if you don't like that, beware.

“Try again.”

Gilbert fidgeted in his seat. Catching the eye of the stern but loving woman in front of him, he quickly straightened his back and raised his chin. 

“One, two, three, five-”

“No, my dear, four comes after three. Again.”

He sighed. The little puff of released breath billowed out visibly from his mouth before joining with the natural breezes that had flown in through the window. It was carried about the room, causing parchments to roll somewhat and quills to quiver. Soon, it dissipated, to forever be a part of the fresh autumn winds.

“One, two, three, fi- uh, four, um, five, eight-”

“Ah, ah, ah! What comes after five?”

Little brown eyebrows furrowed for a moment. The boy shook his head miserably.

“It’s ok, it takes practice to learn things. I’ll count again, and you can repeat after me.”

Heavy steps and creaking wood, a servant threw the door open.

“Madame de la Rivière, your guests have arrived.” he announced in a stately manner.

“I shall greet them momentarily.” she waved the servant away.

As soon as he was away, she carefully pushed herself up from her seat. Young Gilbert blinked two dark eyes at her sadly, but said nothing. He watched as she gently pushed a few stray hairs of grey under the edges of her wig, then smooth out the fabric of her gown. He jumped up and ran to grab her fan for her. Already, he was as high as her shoulders. Given a few years, he would greatly surpass her in height.

“We’ll practice some more later, alright?” she reached down to pat his head.

“Yes, Grand-mère.” he smiled.

Beaming right back, she waved her colorful fan at him before turning away. She left the room with a flourish of her puffy yellow ball gown. The room was a little dimmer without her, but Gilbert didn’t seem to notice. 

Immediately after the door clicked shut, he rushed over to a large wooden bookshelf on the wall. Shoving aside volumes of various size and age, he brushed his fingers along the rough wood of the back wall. It wasn’t long before he found it. A little wooden stick with a string at the end, useless for anything except a bit of fun.

“Woosh! Faster, horse-y!” he shouted as he clattered around the room, holding the stick like a musket. “In the name of the king!”

He knocked over three chairs and crashed into a table, giggling in delight as all the papers and quills fell to the ground with a clatter. Thick black ink stained his jacket and cravat as it poured onto the floor. 

Suddenly, the door was flung open. 

“Monsieur Gilbert, stop this nonsense at once!” shouted the servant from before.

Gilbert froze and spun around, hurriedly shoving his toy up his shirt so it wouldn’t be seen. 

“Look at this mess you’ve made- oh, you’ve ruined your suit!” the color drained from the chubby man’s features as his eyes caught new details of the mess.

The young orphan glanced around. Ink pooled all over the probably-important documents that were sprawled across the floor, black boot prints crisscrossed the garish red carpet, a chair lay broken on its side, and his cravat had fallen to the ground, where it now lay in tatters. He hung his head in shame as the man continued to scold him.

“Now, now, he was only playing.” his grandmother appeared behind the angry servant. “He is a young boy, after all.”

“But look at this mess!” he spun on her, red in the face.

She did not even flinch. “Look at him, he’s clearly learned his lesson. Yelling at him will do no good to anyone.” she clapped her hands and a group of maids arrived to clean up.

“Come, Gilbert, let’s get you changed. Our guests would like to see you.” she stuck out a warm hand.

“Yes, Grand-mère!” he took her hand with a smile.

As they headed to his room, he turned and stuck his tongue out at the servant, turning him three shades redder and causing the maids to giggle.

\---

Gilbert sweltered in his black formal attire. His eyes were only aware of the wooden floor, but his nose thought there were fields of flowers all around him. Knowing they were all in carefully arranged bouquets carried by women in somber black dresses, he sighed and tried to focus on what the speaker was saying. That pursuit failing, he kicked at the floor with his freshly-polished boot. 

His eyes betrayed him in the end, rising slowly to graze over the two long black cases surrounded by more flowers. A weak smile graced his features as he dreamed of a time only a few months ago. Of a time when he was with his grandmother, and she told him that white roses were his mother’s favorite. That’s why his mother was carrying a bouquet of them now. Gilbert wasn’t nearly as avid in his beliefs as his mother had been, but he hoped it brought her peace. Heaven knew she deserved it.

Snapping his head up, he realized that the priest giving the service was staring at him impatiently. Although eulogies have no place in a traditional Catholic funeral, he had wanted to give some sort of speech. This much was allowed. He knew his mother would want him to follow tradition, but he felt it in his heart that she would want to hear what he had to say about her. Sniffling back a tear, he moved to the pedestal.

Stopping to smell the roses, first, of course. 

“As you know, my mother was a pious woman.” he surprised himself with the strength in his voice, though it was still very young. “She wanted nothing more than to serve the Christ and honor Saint Mary. She even gave up her only son. It’s as if she wanted to follow in God’s own footsteps.” 

Several gasps could be heard. That’s part of why he was never fond of the church, people were too easily shaken. He took a deep breath before continuing.

“I never had the good fortune to meet her, as you all surely know. But I have heard stories. Those who speak of her speak highly of her. They say she was so stricken by the death of her husband, my father, that she was moved to a faithful passion and brought closer to her beliefs. She must have been a strong-willed woman, and I am honored to call her my mother. I hope that, in my own grief, I can also move forward with a renewed strength in my own beliefs.”

He heard the muttering. Like the chattering of small animals who have found a new spot to feed. By saying “my own beliefs” he knew they assumed he was implying that he did not believe in God. He certainly didn’t, not in the way they believed, at least. It was like they were more grieved when someone ate chicken on Friday during Lent then when the last two members of a young boy’s family dies within a couple weeks of each other.

“My grand-mère was like her. Or, I suppose, she was like my grand-mère. The chicken or the egg, really.” gasps about his informal tone resounded in the crowd. “Strong, kind, and loving. Most children of wealthy families don’t get the kind of familial love as I did. For that, I am thankful.” the priest began to fidget a bit, the speech was only supposed to be a few curt words. “I will always keep their memories in my heart.”

With a short nod at the priest, he returned to his seat in the pews. He was vaguely aware of a few women praying for him discreetly as the choir stood to sing the closing hymns. Despite himself, he sang along. If he hadn’t he may have cried, and that should wait for when he was alone. It wasn’t befitting of a young man to cry.

In that moment he decided to always stand for his beliefs. Just like his mother and grandmother. As soon as he had the chance, he would join the military.Just like his father and many of his other male ancestors.

\---

At age 13, he was first commissioned as an officer. 

He received the highest education in France, studying at the Collège du Plessis to learn both the fine arts of literature and the tough strategies of warfare.

At age 16, he was offered a prestigious place in Court, which he denied.

His annual salary, which he received basically because he was wealthy and owned a lot of land, was 200,000 francs. This was an incredibly large sum for the time.

His whole life took another turn in 1774, when he married Marie Adrienne Françoise de Noailles.


	3. Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for the wedding! Did you know, Adrienne's mother actually kept them apart for the first year because of how young they were?

“Now, Adrienne, listen up.” said a pudgy maid. “You will be good for the monseigneur, won’t you? There will be no tolerance for misbehaving girls!”

Adrienne nodded, as she’d been taught.

“Good. Remember your manners, dear.”

A gasp escaped her as the little corset was tightened further. She struggled to breathe normally, as she often had to. The numbness in her torso was so common a feeling that she didn’t notice it now. Her cheeks, still a little squishy from youth, were pinched so they would redden. The standard thick layers of makeup were swiftly smeared into place. Marie Adrienne had to look her best for the big day, so they were testing her outfits now. 

“No, no, no. This one is too dark!” an older maid roughly pulled at the skirts of her dress. “It’s a wedding, not a funeral!”

So far, their attempts to find the perfect dress were proving fruitless. Still, Adrienne stood still and waited patiently. 

As she’d been taught.

A stiff breeze blew in, sending stray needles and thread flying across the room. Several of the maids shrieked as they clambered after their wayward supplies. The elderly one waddled over and shoved the window shut. Exhausted sighs rang through the air. Not from Adrienne, who kept perfectly quiet.

As she’d been taught.

“I think we should go for something pink.”

“No no, that’s overdone. Something purple, perhaps?”

“Nonsense! She’s a sweet little girl, not a reigning monarch. A light, delicate blue would be perfect!”

The maids continued to argue. Having no worries about the arranged marriage in just a few days, Adrienne stared longingly at the bookshelves lining the walls of the little room. She hadn’t learned to read, of course, so she didn’t know much about books. Still, she wanted to read them. Wanted to learn new, interesting stories to tell. If only she could learn a few words, just enough to read one book, that would be enough. Adrienne continued to stare in wonder at the literature on the shelf.

As she’d been taught not to.

\---

Gilbert paced the floors of his room. His feet drifted from step to step aimlessly, as if he had to be nowhere fast. He ran his fingers through his brown hair absentmindedly. All his thoughts piled up. A sudden urge to write sent him wandering to the study. Once seated, he began to write out war strategies. Just simple stuff. How to guide troops through a battle at night, how to defend a position with only a few men, attacking an opponent whose forces are split up into groups stationed at large distances from each other…

He froze. Slowly, he lifted his hand to eye level. He stared at it. It shook like a leaf.

Sighing, he set his pen back in its inkwell. The man - though scarcely so - made his way through the halls. Before he knew it he was standing in the garden. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The birds were singing, the bees buzzing softly, the flowers in bloom; this was a wonderful place to be when one wished to calm down.

He took a seat on a stone bench near a rose bush. They reminded him of the funeral, but not necessarily in a bad way. It was like the calmness he had felt when he realized his mother and grandmother were at peace remained preserved in those petals. Gently, he began to fondle one. 

Footsteps signalled the approach of a porter.

“Monseigneur! Are you ready for your final fitting?” he asked.

Gilbert smiled halfheartedly at the small boy. He stood, carefully pocketing the white rose petal.

“Yes, I am.” 

\---

April 11, 1774. 

Bells sang loudly in his ears as he reached the platform. Fighting back the urge to rub the back of his neck, he nodded at the priest.

“Rise for the opening hymns.” the wrinkly priest croaked out.

The audience rose obediently from their seats on the traditionally decorated pews. The hymns droned on, cutting through the sweet perfumes and red roses as the sound carved a path in the air. Stiff people in stiff clothing shared stiff glances when they could afford it. The result was the light feeling of a wedding hardened by ceremony.

Gilbert sighed, hoping his new bride wasn’t too young. Unlike most men at court, he didn’t fancy being married to a nine year old.

As the opening hymns reached their end, the priest signalled something to someone at the back of the building. Seconds later, the doors opened. In came the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Then came the best man and maid of honor. They were all important people, many he did not recognize. It’s not like he had a family to stand there with him. Then, it was the bride’s turn to walk to the altar. Her father was obviously a very important man, but Gilbert hardly noticed him.

Adrienne was so beautiful. Her hair was done up in a very attractive manner, her face was young but gorgeous, her eyes a wonderful shade of brown, and her dress showed off her tiny waist beautifully. Her arms were little and slightly pudgy, but Gilbert loved them anyway. He couldn’t help but smile.

During the actual ceremony, he’d never said “I do” faster to anything in his life.

\---

“So, Monseigneur-”

“Oh, please, call me Gilbert.”

They were finally alone. The wedding had been several hours and the reception twice as many. Now, they were walking alone in the gardens outside the Hôtel de Noailles. Gilbert was smiling goofily as they talked about themselves.

“Gilbert, then. Forgive me if I’m speaking out of place, but aren’t you an orphan? Was that tough?”

“Ah, mon ange, never feel like you are speaking out of place with me, ok? And no, it wasn’t really tough.” he shrugged. “I had my grand-mère for many years. It was like being raised by a parent, I’m sure. She taught me to count and read.”

“You know how to read?” Adrienne gasped.

“Of course! Don’t you?” 

She blushed. “No, I’m a girl, I’m not allowed-”

“What? Nonsense! Many of my female ancestors were very well-versed in the art of literature. There is no reason for you not to be allowed to read!” he paused. “If you want, I could teach you how to read and write?”

She blushed even deeper. “I-If you don’t mind-”

“Of course I don’t mind! We’ll begin as soon as we get home!”

They stood there, smiling stupidly at each other for a few moments. Gilbert started to lean in. Adrienne closed her eyes and leaned in, too.

They stayed like that for some time, the moonlight washing over them.


End file.
